As Yale briefed him about the procedures for the sting in a calm, even voice, he eased David out of his scrub top and wired him up, taping the mike at his fifth intercostal space. After selecting a bigger top from the closet, Yale helped David pull it over his head.
David would drive to Healton's in his Mercedes behind Yale and Dalton's car, being tailed by Jenkins and Bronner in the carpet cleaning van. A sweep car would check the route ahead of Yale and Dalton. Once there, David would walk from the parking lot seemingly unescorted, make his way along a highly visible designated route through the neighborhood, and wind up in the scorched car in the abandoned lot. In reality, undercover police officers and SWAT team members would be watching him every minute. Not surprisingly, Rhonda Decker had refused to grant permission for any part of the stakeout to occur on Pearson Home property. David was disappointed; his presence in the house itself would have been a tempting draw for Clyde.
At all times, an ambulance would be standing by a few blocks away. David did not ask who it was for.
Someone knocked in code on the back door, and Yale swung it open to reveal Jenkins and Bronner. Jenkins walked across the living room, boots creaking, equipment jingling on his belt, and leaned against the far wall. Bronner held a plastic cup. He chewed and spat. 'We have the van in position,' he said.
Yale rubbed his hands together. 'All right, crew,' he said. 'Stay on point. If we fuck this up, the Captain'll put his foot so far up my ass I'll be able to taste shoe polish.'
'A lovely image,' David said.
'But an apt one. Let's do our jobs, and hope Clyde's drawn in for the… ' Yale shifted his weight from one foot to the other in a rare display of discomfort.
David took a deep, halting breath. Jenkins watched the emotions working on David's face. 'Our guys are in place,' he said, in a tone David imagined was as close to comforting as he could manage. 'The area's tighter than the Dodgers infield.'
David smiled. 'This season?'
Some nervous grins. A cough. Dalton fiddling with his wedding ring. Nerves working.
'I'll meet you in the van,' Bronner said. He nodded once, gravely, and backed toward the door cautiously, as though leaving a lion's den.
Yale leveled his stare at David. 'Ready to roll?'
The three men faced David, and he detected respect in their faces. He had coiled his stethoscope inside his jacket pocket for good luck, and he patted it through the fabric to feel its weight. He took a deep breath, and held it before exhaling. 'As ready as I'm gonna get.'
David stood in the dark of his garage, enjoying his last moment alone. The clamor of the press outside seemed amplified through the garage door. A stream of light fought its way through the crack beneath the door, lending the room a dreamlike cast. David had no choice but to forge through the media outside; his Mercedes was a key prop in the stakeout.
In a touching gesture, Dalton had spray-painted over the lettering so the tabloids would have one less thing to screech about. David got into the car and sat with his hands on the wheel for a minute, then he hit the garage door opener and pulled out.
The press flooded toward him. Mikes tapping the car, hands pressed to the windows, faces and makeup and lenses. Cameras flashed. Film rolled.
His first instinct was to stop, so as not to run anyone over, but he continued to back out slowly, carefully, doing his best to fight off claustrophobia. He finally hit the street and accelerated up the block. A few neighbors were standing out on their porches, watching. An old couple up the street wore matching expressions of confusion. The van pulled out immediately behind him, and just before he reached Sunset, Yale and Dalton's car swung in ahead of him. The media brigade followed a few blocks back, but Jenkins did a good job driving poorly to slow them up. As David's eyes darted to the rearview mirror, he realized he was sweating profusely.
Turning right on Veteran, he headed for the police checkpoint. As planned, the two officers pulled aside the sawhorses, letting him through but blocking the following media traffic. One of them offered David a wink as he passed through, and David took note of the clear plastic tube hooked over his ear.
He followed Yale and Dalton south to Wilshire, completing the loop, and the carpet cleaning van was miraculously waiting at the curb after he made the turn. David was amazed at how well Jenkins tailed him to Venice. The van disappeared several times, and David thought for sure Jenkins had lost him for good, but then traffic would thin and there it was again, behind him.
David thought about turning on the radio to relax himself, but not wanting to be distracted by news updates, he hummed instead. He stopped abruptly when he remembered that the wire conveyed his every noise to countless police officers, and it occurred to him with amusement that they'd overhear if he had to take a leak later. In his right ear, he'd been receiving a good transmission of Peter undertaking a procedure-a prostatectomy, from what David could piece together from Peter's concise commands to the nurse.
The sun began its slow fade beneath the horizon. The air was just tainting gray as David entered the familiar neighborhood. He parked in the designated spot, beneath the cone of light in front of Healton's. The other vehicles had disappeared in the last few blocks, as was planned.
He got out of the car and immediately felt a sense of isolation. The neighborhood was quite still. He moved up the first street, his white coat baggy over the wound on his side. He passed the abandoned lot on his right. The scorched car, his final destination, was empty. A homeless man sat bundled against the fence, the front of his worn jacket stained with what smelled like egg. Face ruddy and textured, a thick mustache bristling. Eyes anomalistically clear. Blake. David stared at him a beat too long. Blake raised his eyebrows in a show of impatience. David had another checkpoint to pass down the block in a minute and a half. 'Hey, pal, spare a cigarette?'
His voice spurred David to movement. He continued along the path that Yale had detailed for him, away from the lot, past the front of the Pearson Home. He thought he saw a rifle scope flash in one of the apartment windows across the street, but wasn't sure if he'd imagined it since he knew snipers were stationed up there. The thought that Clyde might be here somewhere, in or near the area, quickened his heart. Maybe Clyde was watching him now.
The next intersection was busy and highly visible. Across the street, Bronner was pretending to make a call in the phone booth, wearing a flannel and a Dodgers cap. He did not look over at David, but he touched his shoulder casually with his fingertips, their agreed-upon signal that everything was clear.
David headed down the sidewalk. His path would loop him around past Clyde's former apartment building before returning him to the empty lot. A boisterous group of men exited a bar. David's eyes blurred momentarily, and he saw the faces as a smeared conglomeration-some coming at him, some moving past on either side-and he knew the situation was now beyond his control. His fate was in the hands of the undercover police officers in the area. The wound in his side began to throb, as if in warning. The group went on. Clyde was not hiding in their midst.
David turned left on Brecken Street. Patches of browning grass broke up the sidewalks; the curbs were lined with battered cars and trucks. The sky darkened a bit, discernibly, which he hoped was not a bad omen. He started down the street, with its many alleys and doorways and dark spaces between vehicles. The fact that someone had scouted the area before his arrival provided little reassurance. A chill tangled around his spine when he heard the clicking of footsteps ahead of him, but then he realized it was merely the echo of his own, amplified off the surrounding buildings. He no longer felt any pain in his side; it had gone numb.
He tried to calm himself by focusing on Peter's familiar voice, transmitted to him from the repeater over five miles away. Peter was sending his office manager home. Then, the ding of the elevator, followed by another, rapid ding. A one-floor ride.
In front of David, a form shifted in a doorway and stumbled down the stairs. David took a quick step back, glancing up the street for backup, but none arrived. The man swept by him, drunk and fat, and staggered up the street, murmuring to himself.
David tried to slow his heart. A flash on the roof across the street as a sniper lowered his rifle and sank again out of view. They were here protecting him, omnipresent and out of sight.
David wasn't getting anything through the earpiece aside from a whistling-the fabric of Peter's pants moving across the transmitter? He'd detected a similar sound earlier when Peter had walked from his car to the office. Then, the noise of a key in a lock. Peter must've gone upstairs, to continue setting things in order in the new procedure suite.
David turned down an alley and ducked through the gap in the fence that led to the abandoned lot. No sign of
